


Watchful Eye Of The Matryoshka

by texastoasted



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: College AU, M/M, miss pauling is super gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 05:04:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15235956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/texastoasted/pseuds/texastoasted
Summary: They're both far from home, in a foreign country where they only care about fending for themselves. Exams are a cross-cultural barrier, however, and if that's what it takes to get them together, c'est la vie.





	Watchful Eye Of The Matryoshka

**Author's Note:**

> a birthday present for my friend honey-rat!! enjoy ur filth!!

Autumn at the university seemed to be a decidedly social affair. 

Everywhere Misha looked there were couples bundled up like they were experiencing a Siberian winter, although to him this cold felt like no more than a passing draft. Students in twos and threes and fours, sometimes whole groups, occupying his favorite place for a pastry until the room felt choked and stuffy. He dared not talk about his lack of friends or significant other in the letters or spotty phone calls back home- Misha, his mother would tut, trying and failing to keep melancholy out of her tone, oh Misha. She supported him going, all right, he was going to be the best educated in their family, but he felt the strain of being in a foreign country far from home keenly, like a pulled muscle in his back. He’d jolted when he discovered there were Russian classes here-but of course, he would be booted out in the second week for being fluent. Misha tried painful and slow Russian club, where he still couldn’t have a real conversation with anybody because the students haven’t moved on beyond greetings and colors. He had tutored some of the more advanced students, and chatted earnestly with some of the professors, but it felt like they always moved on, not understanding those little snippets of home were all he had.

Misha had been waiting for this semester. He had battled enough English prerequisites to be allowed to take Russian Literature. He nearly leapt out of his bed on the first day, the first to pick his seat close to the front. So far, he hadn’t made any friends, but Misha still considered it the best part of his day. He felt a warm feeling in his chest whenever the professor asked him to read words jotted down by great philosophers, his accent impeccable and throaty tones encapsulating of the work. The first time, when he had raised his hand like a timid rabbit popping out of its hole, the silence left by the class felt like a great, embarrassing, sucking hole in his chest. Then there was clapping, and muttered amazement, and Misha felt like he could split a felled oak over his knee.

It didn’t help that he was a little shy. In his native tongue, Misha was the farthest from meek, but he disliked stumbling over his words, or not being able to express how he felt. He’d seen other foreign students push right through the language barrier to the point where others found it endearing. The Russian couldn’t figure out how to accomplish moving beyond others thinking of him as a stupid bear. A particular foreign student, for example, had mastered it into a practical craft, getting female students to help him with his ‘studying’. Misha did not entirely know what to make of the ladykiller in their class, the tall and thin boy who wore scarves tied in elegant knots. He wore his dark and thick hair slicked back, rebelling against its curls, and seemed to lay in wait for the exact moment he could strike on another student’s weakly backed opinion, spitting out fire in mingled French, Russian, and English, to the point where the professor was rather helpless. Unlike Misha, he never was alone. Other students swooned at his smooth French and the carefree aura he exuded. He was the type of boy Misha would swat like a fly if his sisters brought home. But he didn’t deny he enjoyed listening to the heated exchanges between the French boy and other students, there was no saying he didn’t know his stuff. Misha couldn’t exactly call it wasted intelligence-he knew what he wanted, and had the finesse to get it. He would have been fine getting through the semester without exchanging a word with the other student. It seemed he wasn’t that lucky.

It was a Wednesday, a frigid one, with the type of cold in the air that made Misha suspect it would snow. The Russian ended up being correct. He watched snowflakes drift down from the sky the color of a grey sea and when class was over busied himself to get back to his dorm. They had an exam coming up, and while Misha wasn’t worried, he wanted to narrow down his choices of literature for the paper. It would be a lovely afternoon, his tiny space heater roaring away, mechanically reminiscent of the massive fireplace at home.

It took a minute or so before he noticed someone was calling him, his mind on Tolstoy. 

“Hey!”

Misha started, just out from the literature building, one boot in the speckled grass. The French boy was behind him, head cocked to the side with an expression of mild annoyance. With a sniff, he re-adjusted the strap of the leather bookbag on his shoulder, and opened his mouth to speak. A snowflake landed on the tip of his nose, and the boy’s eyes were drawn upwards like they were on puppet strings.

“Is snow,” Misha rumbled, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Never seen before?”

“It has been a while,” the boy answered, softly, and lowered his face back down to Earth. “Mikhail, right?”

“Da. Yes.”

“I must ask you,” he started, looking slightly as if it was paining him a great deal to ask Misha this, “If you are free to get together sometime after class before the exam.”

Misha’s cheeks colored. A few students hurried past them under the steadily increasing snowfall.

“For…?” he trailed off.

“Studying.” One eyebrow on his classmate’s knife-sharp face was raised quizzically. “You are, of course, the resident expert. Everyone knows asking you is practically the same as asking the professor. Before the exam, your help would be invaluable.”

“Oh.” Something was fierce burning in his face, melting snowflakes when they landed on the apples of his cheeks. “Thank you.” Misha answered carefully. He knew the boy was flattering him to get what he wanted, but all the same, he couldn’t turn him down. “I will help you study, best I can.”

His classmate gave a prompt nod, as firm as a business handshake.

“Bien. When are you available?”

“Days we have class?” Misha suggested. “I will study today, if you want to start.”

“That will work. Where do you usually study?”

“My dorm. I have collection of many Russian works. Some I cannot find in library here.”

“The selection is far from magnifique,” his classmate agreed, adjusting his scarf. “All right, then. Lead the way.”

So they walked together, the only sound the crunching of boots in snow. Misha gazed upon other students hurrying to and fro, by themselves, and took private pleasure in being with someone today. He was usually the one scurrying around alone.

“I do not know your name,” he said in an attempt at conversation.

“Thierry.” his classmate responded, rolling it in the back of his throat flawlessly. Misha shrunk internally at the pronunciation.

“You can call me Misha.”

“Misha. All right.”

“Sorry. Did not realize someone was coming over.” The Russian apologized when they stomped up the dormitory stairs to his room, practically filling the doorway in an attempt to block the mess. 

“Do you have a roommate?” Thierry asked, eyes on the hand-stitched tea towels bundled on the tiny counter, dyed a brilliant blue.

“Nyet. Got lucky. Or maybe not. Was supposed to be with other Russian student, but he decided not to come last minute. Get room to myself. You?”

“I have a roommate. Prefers to sleep in his camper van most of the time. I do not complain, he is...odd.”

Thierry took a seat on the provided couch. It was clear the dorm had touches of home far away, matryoshka dolls on top of the mini refrigerator and a stack of letters on a chair. In the kitchen, there were sounds of the kettle being put on.

“Tea? Coffee?” came Misha’s voice, entirely worried. “I only have some materials for sandvich-”

“I am not taking your lunch,” Thierry chided, shaking his head. “Tea would be nice. Next time, I will bring some lunch for us.”

Misha made a noise in assent, and Thierry’s roving eyes fell upon the bookshelf, which housed several tall, thick volumes in dark covers. He rose from his seat to rub his thumb across the gold lettering, the careful binding of leather flaking a little bit at his touch. His eyebrows rose nearly into his hairline as he skimmed the titles.

“You were not kidding at your collection. This is impressive. I have been trying to get my hands on raw, untranslated works like these for quite a while.”

The kettle released its fierce whistle, snuffed out into a silence a moment after it began. Thierry rose to his feet.

“You are welcome to borrow anytime,” Misha said from the kitchen, bringing him a steaming mug of liquid. The ceramic piece was painted with a scene of bounding bear cubs in snow, and Thierry raised his eyes to his classmate’s.

“милый. Спасибо.”

“Мне было интересно, насколько велико ваш русский.”

“Я думаю, вы найдете его более чем адекватным.”

Misha saw a new side of his classmate that evening, one whose curls came down from their gel and seemed to wave when he got passionate about their current debate. It felt like he was able to breathe, finally, to let himself go in his native tongue, to argue and to challenge and to laugh. For the first time in a long time, Misha felt intelligent again, poking jovial holes in his classmate’s arguments that silenced him for a minute, knuckle under his upper lip. Thierry’s Russian was smooth and he had a much larger grasp and vocabulary than Misha had realized. Conversation was a pleasure, warming him from the inside like strong coffee first thing in the morning. Gone were the shackles of a language barrier, and there were points Thierry raised, opinions he challenged, things that Misha had never realized about his favorite works. It felt like he had run a marathon, and he was a little lightheaded when it was over, the both of them out of breath and flushed.

“Mon dieu, it’s late.” his classmate commented. “I should get going.”

Misha saw him to the door, privately wishing that it hadn’t suddenly gotten so dark outside. He was impressed by Thierry and his strong-willed opinions, and there was a pleasant feeling of satisfaction for both of them, having not only decided the works of their paper but a convincing argument, using the others’ comments to make the work well-rounded. Misha was letting Thierry borrow the tomes he needed, and they promised to meet in a few days with rough drafts of their papers. He threw himself onto his protesting bed, rattling fixtures in the apartment, casting a smile of a million watts at the ceiling. When was the last time he had fun? When was the last time his intellect got challenged? His tongue had almost felt sluggish at first, but it leapt back into his mother language with earnest. The smile plastered on his face followed him all the way to sleep.

 

He found himself looking forward to Saturday, when he and Thierry had agreed to meet at one of the cafes near their university if the weather was agreeable. Misha had never sat outside, but he squeezed into a chair, admiring the vines climbing up the side of the little brick building, leaves kissed by dew, the small courtyard empty except for him and his bag. Thierry joined him at the little table, his knees knocking against Misha’s.

“I hope you will still respect me when you read it,” he scoffed, tossing a folder across the table. 

Misha smiled and pulled it across the table to him, retrieving his own stapled packet from his bag. “Is nice place,” he offered, casting another gaze around them. A breeze picked up, a few dead leaves bustling around the bricks.

Thierry nodded. “I like it. Reminds me of a little cafe on the Seine I used to go to when I was a child.”

“Do you have family here?”

“No, they are all back in France. You?”

“All my family is in Russia.”

“Do you like it here?”

“Is hard for me, to be away from my mother and sisters. Language barrier has been difficult. But I enjoy the diversity here, the ability to learn things I could not back home. I miss my friends.”

Thierry propped his chin up on the palm of his hand. “That can be hard to replicate.”

“Not for you,” Misha said a little awkwardly, shuffling some things in his bag. 

There was a moment of silence where he wondered if he’d gone to far, if some of his jealousy of the other student had crept out. 

“Everything is not how it seems.”

“How so?”

“None of the people who I surround myself with I really consider my friends. They are...temporary. I would call it a mask, I suppose. It is not who I really am.”

“Why not be who you really are?”

Thierry regarded him for a moment. 

“I envy you, do you know that? You are confident in who you are. It is easier for me to pretend to be someone else.”

“I think who you are is good person,” Misha pressed, “You are smart and make good points. Have passion to learn. Almost as good as me at analyzing classics.”

A slow, sad smile swept across Thierry’s face, and was gone with the next breeze.

 

Their weekly meeting became another thing that Misha relished deeply, even more important than Russian Literature. He had a friendship with Thierry, someone whom he thought he would never have a reason to speak to. His letters back home to his mother started lifting in tone, with more things to say. Thierry was cynical but refreshingly honest, and Misha would never get over the freedom of being able to go on and on in his native tongue, unrestricted by the slowness of his speech barrier. The two of them made quite the pair around campus and a formidable duo in class.

Sometime in late October, Misha got back to his dorm to see an orange and black flyer taped to his door. Halloween Party, it proclaimed cheerfully, words winding through cobwebs and googly-eyed spiders. He was standing there looking at it when the frazzled resident assistant came skidding around the corner, one hand on her glasses to keep them from falling off. Pauling was her surname, he believed. They had exchanged a few pleasantries throughout the semester.

“Hey! Mikhail! I thought I heard you coming up the stairs.”

Misha offered a nod. 

“I’d really appreciate if you could help me out. I’m helping plan a Halloween party, I see you already got the flyer. This is a huge favor, an embarrassing favor, I can’t believe I’m asking you this. Everyone else in this dorm seems too...anyway, I’ll owe you big time.”

“What is favor?” he rumbled, a little bit impatiently.

“My...friend is coming into town. She hasn’t celebrated Halloween much before, I was hoping to get off working for that night and show her a nice time at the party. Don’t worry, you don’t have to plan anything,” she said hastily, raising her hands when Misha’s face started to contort. “I’ll take care of everything. It’s just for the night of the actual party. I was due to be the designated...whatever. Keep people from choking on their own vomit, you know? It’s supposed to end at midnight. After that, you’re technically off. I’m not sure if you were planning on going anyway, if you have other Halloween plans I totally understand. Oh, but you can’t get drunk, obviously. Of course, you’ll get paid as an intern RA while I’m off, and please never tell my boss, and I will bury any bodies you need me to throughout your life I will owe you so bad-”

Misha raised his hands. Pauling’s mouth snapped shut.

“Okay.” he said simply.

“Really?” she asked, cheeks filling with warmth. “Oh, thank you so much! Okay, so, just come to the party a little early, there are some streamers and things you could help put up if you wouldn’t mind. I have to tell her to get a costume, she’s going to be so thrilled!”

Her enthusiasm made him smile, and he was left in the hallway waving to her as she bounded back down the stairs.

 

“There is Halloween party at my dorm. Have you heard of it?” Misha asked Thierry one afternoon, the two of them bundled up against the snow in the window of what had become their favorite cafe. They were waiting on the results of their exam, going back and forth over every comma and quotation on their papers until their mouths were sore.

Thierry raised an eyebrow, eyes closed, enjoying his pastry.

“I did not take you for a party person, mon ami.”

“Am helping out by being supervisor.” 

Misha waited a while before Thierry answered, to the point where he wondered if his friend had forgotten what he’d asked.

“I have been taking a break from those kinds of things.”

“Why?”

Thierry opened one eye, his tongue snaking out to remove any leftover crumbs from his lips. “Too many people only know me as my mask. It gets tiring.”

“Is party for just my dorm, I think.” Misha pressed gently. “Could be chance to meet new people, as who you are. We could go together. Then I could have someone to talk to.” He finished his sentence rather quickly, taking note of the darkening expression on his friend’s face like an incoming storm. Misha wasn’t sure if he saw sadness, fear, anger, or a mix of everything in one convoluted pot.

“Are you trying to ask me on a date?” Thierry practically shouted, looking downright scandalized. Misha was still trying to summon words when his friend gathered his things and left in a hurry, bustling away from him in a way that made Misha wonder if he had something contagious. He shuffled home in the snow that night alone, stopping for a minute where they usually parted ways to their respective dorms, laughter that shouldn’t have been absent ringing in the silence. What was he trying to do? The more Misha thought about it, the more he retreated into himself, shuddering like a bear struck with illness. It sounded enough like he was asking his friend as a date. He hadn’t meant it like that, he hadn’t.

But Misha was steadily bothered by the fact that he wouldn’t mind having Thierry as his date.

He wasn’t...he’d dated women before!

The Russian started to sweat profusely under his many layers. He could have lost a friend. Thoughts as quick as the cracking of a whip raced through his mind. His hands threading through Thierry’s hair, freeing its long curls from its gel. Thierry’s prominent nose nuzzling against his neck. Sharp cheekbones on his. His face getting all red like the way it did when it was very cold, and the tip of his nose lit up like a Christmas light. Misha shook his head rapidly. It wasn’t just thoughts of sex. Unwrapping Thierry’s endless scarf, the two of them getting their graduate degrees together. Grocery shopping. Making breakfast. It didn’t matter to him as much as he felt it should have that Thierry was male. Despite himself, Misha smiled when he wondered how Thierry would look in one of his own huge mother-knitted sweaters.

He could have lost a friend. The smile was wiped off his face like rain off a windshield. 

Misha realized he was still standing at the crossroads. With his jaw set with determination, he turned in the direction of Thierry’s dorms. He just had to explain, that was all. It didn’t matter how he felt. He could put all of that aside, all that mattered was that Thierry was his friend.  
The Russian stamped his boots at the entrance and asked the dozing man at the front desk where Thierry’s room was. A minute later he was pounding up the stairs, trying to resist the urge to break the door down. He settled for a firm knock.

He had to knock twice more before Thierry opened up. His friend looked like he had possibly been crying, but straightened up immediately when he saw it was Misha, scrubbing his face with the back of his hand.

“What do you want?”

There was a pit in his chest, heavier than any weight he’d tried to lift.

“I am sorry for any misunderstanding. I didn’t mean to make it sound like date.”

Thierry was suddenly looking, if possible, even more upset. 

“I am so confused! What is it that you want?” 

Doors in the hallway opened. He hadn’t meant to shout. Thierry waited to speak until his neighbors had poked their heads back inside their rooms.

“Get in here,” he hissed, and yanked Misha by the arm into his dorm. “I don’t know, all right? All I know is that you are making me feel quite horrible inside!”

“I am sorry,” Misha began again, tentatively. “I just want to have you as friend. Nyet, I mean, I just don’t want to lose you as friend.”

Thierry was looking at him in a way that made him feel entirely ridiculous for even speaking.

“I go now,” he said, a bit shakily, and turned to practically wrench the door off its hinges. It was dangerous territory they were traversing, and-

“Which is it?”

“What?”

Thierry’s voice was low. “Which is it? You want me as a friend or something else?”

There was nothing in Thierry’s actions or expressions that he could pick up upon that told Misha how he felt. There was nothing that would strike a more critical blow to lose his friend. His best friend. But in what might have been the bravest and most idiotic moment of his life, Misha felt suddenly like he had no control over what words were coming out of his mouth.

“Something else,” he said, and bolted for the stairs.

 

“Thank you, again, for being here,” Miss Pauling said, clasping his giant hands in hers. The little woman was dressed as a witch, buzzing around the lower floor of the dormitory with heightened anxiety as her familiar. They had set up streamers, and hollowed out pumpkins with lights in them, and even a fog machine. She had unearthed punch and Halloween-themed foods from somewhere, they had dragged some more couches down, and fiddled with the spooky music playlist incessantly.

“Everything looks great. Sorry I forgot to come with costume.”

“Oh, it’s okay! You could be a chef,” she suggested, gesturing to his purple apron that he had borrowed from her, multicolored cupcake frosting smeared across it like an abstract painting. 

“A chef,” Misha confirmed, and smiled at her.

He sat by the punch with his book as partygoers started to drift in, pairs of monsters and ghouls and a massive variety of American characters he did not recognize. Miss Pauling flitted back and forth between adjusting the stacks of plastic orange and black cups and fixing her pointed hat in the mirror.

“Do I look okay?” she asked Misha repeatedly, too distracted to notice his affirmative responses.  
The party really began to pick up, the floor packed line a can of sardines, including the entrance of a lone blonde woman who drifted in, orange tabby ears affixed to her head and a striped tail swinging from her skirt. She looked a little lost until Miss Pauling spotted her and made a small squeak.

“Okay, Misha, this is where I leave you.”

He felt entirely more alone and out of his element than expected when she left him. Miss Pauling had told him it might take a little while for people to get really drunk and anything to be broken, so he had brought a novel, and balanced his reading glasses on the end of his nose. It was nice to snack on pretzels and cookies, and Misha allowed himself to be sucked into Tolstoy, happy to forget the events of a few evenings ago. Hours flew as if the clock was broken. Misha snorted to himself as he saw snippets of Miss Pauling and her ‘friend’ through the crowd, holding onto each other for support and getting entirely shitfaced. It made some part of him ache when they planted sloppy kisses on each other’s cheeks, and Misha dismissed it as heartburn. There was another face in the crowd that Misha kept locking onto, a mask of brilliant blue with gleaming fangs. It bobbed in the crowd, appearing to float above its black turtleneck. The owner was frequenting the table next to him very often, drink after drink disappearing under the rim of the carved piece. Often the crowd pushed the skinny boy towards Misha, to where he hovered above his book, threatening to topple his drink onto the literature. 

“Tolstoy?”

Misha gazed into the mask, the muffled voice threatening any recognition.

“Da.”

“Overrated,” came a pretentious sniff.

Misha gaped. “Overrated? Is pillar of Russian literature! Maybe would be clearer, if you read in Russian. Translations due no justice.”

“Where might I find them?”

“Library here does not have them. I do-”

“Sounds like a date.”

Misha stared up into the slightly swaying mask, and was not stopped when he gently reached up to lift it. 

“I have been socializing,” Thierry said miserably, scratching at the collar of his turtleneck, “I have been trying to be myself.”

“You are little drunk.”

“Makes it easier. What are you supposed to be, a maid?”

“Chef.”

“Don’t talk to me about food,” Thierry blurted, and clutched his stomach as he reached under the snack table for a trash can, emptying the mostly liquid contents of his stomach into it.

“This is what I am supposed to be. Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

“That’s a little forward,” Thierry croaked, clinging onto Misha for dear life. His friend tilted back and forth like a house in a hurricane, muttering something in French when they reached Misha’s room.

“You can stay here. Please do not vomit on things. Here is wastebasket.”

“Wait,” his friend said, clinging to his departing hand with the force of rigor mortis, “Wait.”

“Thierry,” Misha said, fear creeping up his spine, “We will talk tomorrow. You should sleep.”

“Stay,” he only said, drifting to unconsciousness. 

Misha gazed at him, jaw slack, and rolled his friend onto his side. There was nothing more he would have liked than to stay, but he had a duty. His stomach was in knots the rest of the party. Misha kept his eyes trained on the clock as if his life depended on it. It crawled painfully slowly towards midnight, and he busied himself helping partygoers upstairs and picking up broken glass, including steering a very drunk Miss Pauling and girlfriend in the direction of her dorm. He tried to be as quiet as possible going back upstairs, half-rushing and sounding like a water buffalo on a squeaky floor, but Thierry woke up all the same, sitting straight up in bed like a vampire in its coffin.

“Go to sleep,” Misha insisted.

Thierry’s sweater was riding up his middle and he kept trying to climb out of the bed, tripping on the sheets. “Misha,” he rasped, almost knocking over the cup of water next to the bed, neighbors to a carved figurine of a bear.

“Stop, stop. I will come to you.” he placated.

He came over to stand by Thierry, who took handfuls of his apron, and tried pathetically to drag him closer. Misha’s cheeks colored.

“You are very drunk.”

“Sleep with me.”

Misha looked down at Thierry flushed the color of wine and began to turn that color himself.

“Nyet, you are very drunk. Go to sleep.”

“Not like that,” Thierry croaked, waggling one eyebrow. “Sleep-sleep. What did you think I meant?”

Misha was careful, settling around Thierry like a cushion, promising himself he wouldn’t laugh at his friend’s snoring that managed, somehow, to sound pretentious. 

 

Morning light wound its way around the handmade curtains and settled on the bed like a warm, dozing cat. Thierry seemed to have slept off most of the alcohol and woke drowsily, coming to realize Misha’s arm was thrown around him like a hibernating bear. The body heat was coming off him in waves like sleeping next to a furnace. The memories started to sift through Thierry’s mind, a gentle reminder that he had made an absolute fool of himself. Merde, he had been drunk last night. The thought of talking to Misha had made him nervous like he never knew he could be. He’d slept with men before, all experiments-but this was the first time he’d actually felt something for one of them, man or woman. It was more than just a quick fuck, his friend saw him for who he really was and still wanted him. The thought sent shivers down his spine. The potential was vast and endless; a final and unexplored frontier. 

It was new territory for both of them, it seemed.

Misha stirred sooner than Thierry expected, letting out a jaw-splitting yawn, and then jolted backwards when he realized his proximity to his friend. “Sorry,” he apologized quickly, removing his arm.

“Don’t be.”

“How are you feeling?”

“A lot less drunk and wishing I did not remember what I remember.”

“You only threw up once.” Misha tried.

“An accomplishment.”

A moment of silence passed, where Thierry met the eyes of the matryoshka dolls on the fridge and wished they didn’t look so knowing.

“I am sorry for the way I acted. You handle your feelings much better than I.”

“Is okay. Would just like to know how you are feeling.”

Thierry took a huge breath. “I feel something for you, and it scares me. I am sorry I reacted so badly. I hope you still feel the same. I want to be your friend, but more, too.”

“I am glad,” Misha said softly, running his thumb down the back of Thierry’s hand, over the hills and valleys of the veins in his wrist. “I am glad.”

Thierry turned his chin to align with Misha’s. He tracked the Russian’s eyes, flitting back and forth over his face like he was reading a map.

“Do you mind if I kiss you?”

“Nyet.” Misha answered softly.

He relished the feeling of Thierry’s slender hand along his jaw, cupping his left cheek, and then their faces were brought together. The kiss deepened, his friend’s tongue slipping past his lips, and Misha felt warmth spread from his face to the tips of his fingers. He jolted a little bit in surprise when Thierry’s hand made its way down to his pajama pants, tracing fingers down his thigh, cupping what was resting between his legs.

“I am sorry if I am rushing you.”

“Nyet, don’t stop, please.”

“Have you ever done this before? With a man?”

Misha shook his head. 

“Well,” his friend began, “One of us has to be on top. The other-”

“Me,” Misha said quickly, fighting the urge to raise his hand. “Me. I would like to.”

Thierry’s eyebrows lowered from the skyline and his smile deepend. “All right, then. I am usually the one on top. It will be interesting for me.”

Misha turned the color of a beetroot. “All I have been thinking about is...wanting to fuck you.”

Thierry’s facade of confidence cracked the slightest, and a brilliant blush spread to the tip of his nose. 

“Do you have anything…” Misha began. 

“Oui. I brought lube with me, in my pants pocket. I had this grand impression I would swagger up, seduce you immediately, and then proceeded to lose my nerve.” Thierry clambered out of bed to grab it, casually stripping his sweater off and tossing it onto a chair. Misha watched his torso go, a pale pillar criss-crossed by scars. A story for another time, then. Misha followed him, coming up behind him to place warm hands on his waist. “Can I take these off?” he asked, slipping one finger under the waistband of his pants. Thierry turned and stripped them off himself, standing there unabashedly in front of him. Misha almost wept, the stiffening in his underwear becoming unbearable. He stepped forward, cautiously taking Thierry’s cock in his hand, and giving it a few testing strokes, resting its head on his stomach. 

“To bed,” Thierry said, rather hoarsely, coming forward to press his body against Misha’s. He missed the warmth like he was experiencing withdrawal. Misha obliged, lifting the skinny boy by his waist and setting him down gently, straddling his friend’s hips. Seeing Thierry laying under him was almost more than he could handle. His friend uncapped the bottle of lube, coating his fingers before motioning at Misha’s pants. The Russian obliged, swaying back and forth to get the restricting item off, and let out a nervous laugh at the expression on Thierry’s face. 

“Mon dieu, I have been blessed.”

Misha wasn’t entirely prepared for Thierry taking his cock with both hands, coating it with lube and rubbing the palm of his hand across the tip. He bucked forwards, both hands coming down on either side of Thierry’s shoulders. The sensations his lover was evoking were electric, nerves in his legs wound up in hot ropes. “бог выше,” Misha moaned, suddenly feeling like his knees weren’t enough to hold himself up anymore. Thierry let out a low hum, removing one of his hands to bring Misha’s massive paw to his backside, nudging him towards the bottle of lube that had fallen to the side.

“You want me to-?”

The Russian worked his fingers around the loosening ring of muscle until Thierry’s motions around him went slack with enjoyment. Thierry made noises that made Misha’s cock twitch in his lover’s hand, wondering how loud the other boy would get.

“Готов?”

Thierry nodded hastily, fingers balled up in fists around the quilt underneath him. When Misha pushed into him it was like seeing God, white at the edges of his vision. Thierry threw his head backwards, arching his spine, trying to push himself even further onto Misha’s cock. The sensation of being so completely filled and stuffed transitioned to a pleasant warmth that spread throughout his body like he’d been dipped in warm water. 

“More,” he whispered, and Misha obliged, pulling halfway out of Thierry to push back in, the bigger student shuddering at the feeling of his lover’s hot muscles clenching around him. It was almost too much for him to concentrate on, watching Thierry come undone underneath him, the student that was usually so suave and in control with spread legs, moaning for more and practically thrusting himself onto Misha’s cock. His lover’s skin had transcended from its paleness into a brilliant flush that spread all the way to the tips of his ears.

Misha picked him up and set Thierry in his lap, his lover’s knees clumsily folding beneath him on either side of Misha’s thighs, and Thierry released a whimper as the tip of his cock rubbed against Misha’s stomach as he pushed himself up and down, a manic frenziness in the rutting. Hands on his waist guided the movements, protective against the weakness steadily growing in his body. Thierry threw his arms around Misha’s neck, burying his face unabashedly into his lover’s shoulder. The angle of Misha’s cock was just hitting his prostate, sending Thierry steadily over the edge. Misha groaned when he felt Thierry’s teeth sink around his collarbone, worrying a mark into his skin. It was evident he was turned on by the loss of control, fingers twitching across anything they could grab. Hot breath moistened Misha’s flesh, forced out from between clenched teeth as fast as it would go. “Oh,” Thierry moaned, voice shaking like a leaf, “I’m going to-”

Misha pulled Thierry’s hips downwards to meet his a final time before his lover cried out for mercy, throwing his head backwards and painting Misha’s stomach with white fluid. The Russian followed not long after, sucked into the throes of lust, thrusting his hips upwards into his lover’s until he felt himself spilling hot liquid, droplets beginning to leak out around the both of them. Misha’s forehead fell against Thierry’s, breath whistling out both of their noses like a windchime. 

“We should have done this earlier,” Misha told him, on the verge of exhaustion, beads of sweat rolling down his back. 

“Oui,” Thierry responded, a devilish smile quirking up the edges of his mouth. “Bien. When are you available?”


End file.
